Communication Breakdown
by Wynn
Summary: What can one say with a fist full of gun besides click, bang, boom? Spoilers up to Shadow.


Title: Communication Breakdown

Author: Wynn

Disclaimer: I do not own Sam or Dean or the rest of the characters of _Supernatural_. They are owned by Eric Kripke, the WB, etc. and are used for non-profit, entertainment purposes only.

AN: Self-indulgence lies ahead. You have been warned. A post-Shadow fic.

Communication Breakdown

By: Wynn

Communication breakdown. Zeppelin song but also the state of the Winchester union. Oh, Dean and Sam talk. They talk about ghosts, they talk about guns, they talk about girls every blue moon or two when Sam feels the mood (Dean always feels the mood). But communication? That elusive transfer of thought, that delicate acceptance of feeling? The moment where two minds, so distant, so disparate, align and something more than comprehension, something more or less, less like at or to, more like with and you, no me, just us, and this, and we?

Well, what did you expect, conflict at their core, the x and the y, the yin and the yang, opposites attract but since when did they match? They're men, after all, communication breakdown at the cellular center. If divisive DNA rules the roost, how oh how will nurture transcend and break on through to that other side?

Oh.

Wait.

Wrong song.

But you get my drift. Communication. A sequence of sounds, twenty-six bases, tonal variations, a whispered wisp, a hurricane roar, some body language, talk to the hand 'cause the mouth just don't understand, but what can one say with a fist full of gun besides click, bang, boom?

…………

"Touch my plate again and I'll kill you."

"Your fries look better than mine."

"Maybe you shouldn't have leered at the waitress."

"Maybe you should just give me some fries."

"Maybe you should-"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Say it."

"Can't. Lost my train of thought."

"What are you? The little engine that couldn't?"

"Couldn't you just get your own fries?"

"Couldn't you just share?

"Couldn't you _stop _eating off my plate?"

"Ow. Fuck. Whatever happened to respecting your elders?"

"It got old."

"Well, you know what they say: age before beauty. Cough 'em up, Princess."

"How about I cough _on _them instead?"

"Go ahead. Salt 'em enough, they'll taste just fine."

"They'll taste like salt, but, you know, whatever. Different strokes."

"Never could appreciate the finer things in life."

"Didn't know over salted, half-cold fries qualified."

"You-"

"Take them. Just- take them. I don't care. I'll get more."

"I- Don't bother. I'm not hungry anymore."

…………

But who cares about words?

Actions speak louder.

Consider this.

…………

His face is purple.

Sam scrambles and slips, slides on blood and guts, but not his and not Dean's and that's all that matters. Dean down on his knees, lips blue, face purple, the cold dead thing that was once a man looming, choking, killing.

Sam reaches and latches, rears and nothing. It tightens its grip and Dean gurgles, sags. Sam punches and kicks and it can't and he won't and he needs a weapon, where are his weapons, he just needs a weapon, what happened to his weapons.

His face is purple. Dean looks up, looks at, looks past Sam, and Sam sees muddy fields and don't fear the.

No.

No.

Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, don't, can't, Dean, won't, need, please, Dean-

Sam.

Sam opens his eyes (since when did they close), finds Dean on his knees, still, still, but he looks up, looks at, looks to Sam. His face is red, his lips are white, there's a gun in Sam's hand (where and how and why oh god), grey matted flesh on him and Dean (the walls and floor and door), and Sam doesn't know but he does. The how and the where and the gun in his hand, and Sam doesn't know but he does.

He looks at Dean (he doesn't know).

Dean looks away (but he does).

The how and the where and the gun in his hand (he really is a freak after all).

…………

Picture imperfect worth two hundred words (plus forty-four to grow on).

But wait.

Perspective matters. It-

…………

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill-

…………

Well maybe not _his_, its, do the dead have perspectives?

Doesn't matter. The dying do.

…………

He's dying. Again.

No shock to the heart, he's to blame, just death by zombie, and how many times does one get to die?

Down on his knees, gun out of reach, knocked out of the way by the not so brain dead walking corpse digging fingers like steel, like marble, like death into his neck. He claws and kicks, slips and chokes, prays and pleads and wants and needs, and Sammy's there pulling, punching, but not pulling punches, but Dean's still dying, dying, dying still.

Eyes bleeding black, world warping, fading, and he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't. He looks up, at, past Sam, sees it, him, hovering, there, gliding in the distance, and it's not, he needs, Sam needs, Sam screams.

Flash of metal past his eyes, flies bullet fast, click, bang, boom, and he breathes again, breathe, breathe, breathes again. He looks up, at, to Sam, and Sam opens his eyes. There's a gun in his hand and blood on his face, but it's not his or Dean's and that's all that matters, except.

He screwed up (again) and died (again). And he hates to see Sam go (Sam looks at Dean) and he never wants to leave (Dean looks away), but he has and he will, oh why will he will, how many times can one trump death?

…………

Perspective.

Perception plus interpretation.

This means this, that means that, identify the themes, the symbols, the sub under the text. What lies beneath, brushed aside with a word, maybe two, a bit of wit and wisdom, the tears of a clown twisting sentiment to sarcasm, the pink rubber elephant floating sky high, drifting through the atmosphere to the other side of the moon?

…………

"Touch my plate again, and I'll stop speaking to you."

"But your fries look better than mine."

"That's because I was nice to the waitress."

"So be nice again and give me some fries."

"I don't—"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Say it."

"Can't. Don't want to hurt you."

"You already have so just say it."

"Couldn't you just stop pushing?"

"Couldn't you just start trying?"

"Couldn't you leave me alone?"

"I don't understand. Why do you want to be alone?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Well, you know what they say: tough shit. This is your life. Get used to it."

"How about I get angry instead?"

"Go ahead. I can take it."

"You can't and I know it, so I'm not going to."

"Never did respect me or my choices."

"Didn't know this life qualified as a choice."

"You—"

"Shut up. Just- shut up. I don't care. This life isn't mine. I'll get mine back again someday."

"I- If that's how you want it. I'm tired of trying anyway."

…………

Read between the lines.

See the negative space.

It's the things you don't say that count.

But if your meaning falls in the middle of your words, and there's no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?

…………

"You want to talk about this?"

"No."

Dean's looking at him, and it's different. The look. Dean. Sam isn't sure whether it's better to be looked at different or not at all. He wishes for not at all, but he understands why Dean keeps looking, watching, staring. If Sam had a ticking time bomb of telekinesis living with him, he'd be wary, too.

"You feeling okay? No headaches or anything?"

"I'm fine." Except, he's not. He's not, he isn't, he never was; he just fooled himself for a few years or three and they both know it now.

Dean nods, looks away. He fiddles with his ring, and Sam hates that it's come to this. Dean on edge, off balance, all because of him. Because of him and this, this _thing _in his brain, this thing that makes Dean look at him different like he doesn't know Sam and maybe never had.

Dean looks back, clears his throat, and the effort makes Sam sick. He gets up and leaves and the door slams shut hard behind him, rattling Sam and the window because he never touched it, he never touched it but his mind did.

He hears Dean sigh through the door, relief, relief, sweet relief from the freak, and Sam hates that it's come to this.

He hears Dean sigh and he walks away.

Sam knows what he has to do.

…………

Dean knows what he has to do.

Sam needs him, hasn't spoken since the fight, since his mind saved Dean and the day again. Dean remembers the first, the quiet admission of fear and Dean's lying response, nothing bad will happen to you as long as I'm around.

As long as he's around.

He shouldn't be around (again), Sam shouldn't be scared (again), but he is and Sam is, so.

"You want to talk about this?"

"No."

Why would he? Dean has no answers, no clue, nothing but himself and what can he offer but a cold, delayed half-serving of death?

But Sam keeps looking, waiting, waiting for Dean, so Dean tries, "You feeling okay? No headaches or anything?"

"I'm fine."

I'm fine. He's fine. Sam's fine. But he's not, they're not, so Dean looks away. What to say, what to do, the same questions pondered since he was four, no answers then, no answers now. But Dean looks back and draws in a breath, tries to find the words to say, comfort, love, everything will be and nothing will Sam, but Sam shoots up and leaves. The door slams shut behind him hard, and the breath, no words, just air, follows soft like the setting sun as Sam walks away.

…………

Communication breakdown.

Break it down.

We say things we don't mean, mean things we don't say, hear but don't listen, assume but don't ask. We talk without words, with bodies, with silence, and communication is the key to a successful relationship?

Anybody know how to pick a lock?

…………

_Dean,_

_Sorry for the map. It was the only paper I could find, and I didn't want to leave without saying anything again._

_I need to get this- whatever this is- telekinesis- under some sort of control and I don't I'm too dangerous for you to be around until that happens. You could get hurt and I. That can't happen._

_Take care of yourself, please._

_Sam_

…………

You've reached Sam Winchester. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you:

"Sam. Get your ass back here. Now."

…………

You've reached Sam Winchester. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you:

"I mean it, Sam, I swear to God. You want to be here before I find you, and I will find your ass. You know I will.

"This is stupid. You know what's out there, you know what Dad is hunting, and you.

"Come back. Now. I'm serious."

…………

------------Original Message------------

Date: Mon, 19 Jun 2006, 07:28:53

From: (no subject)

I can't come back. Not until I know what's going on, why I'm like this. Not before. I know you're mad, but please try to understand. I need you to understand.

Sam.

---------------------------------------------

…………

------------Original Message------------

Date: Mon, 19 Jun 2006, 09:15:45

From: (no subject)

understand what? how much you want to get yourself killed?

---------------------------------------------

…………

------------Original Message------------

Date: Tues, 20 Jun 2006, 06:44:07

From: re: (no subject)

No, understand that I didn't do this to hurt you or to get myself killed or because I'm a stubborn selfish bastard who only does what he wants. I'm trying to protect you. Let me.

----------------------------------------------

…………

-------------Original Message------------

Date: Tues, 20 Jun 2006, 07:03:27

From: let you?

let me think about that for a sec. NO. you are NOT going to hurt me so stop being a STUPID stubborn bastard and do what I tell you. tell me where you are and i will come get you. now, sam.

----------------------------------------------

…………

------------Original Message------------

Date: Wed, 21 Jun 2006, 06:31:17

From: (no subject)

fine. don't tell me. i'll find you anyway.

----------------------------------------------

…………

------------Original Message------------

Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2006, 18:22:09

From: answer me

what is this? the silent treatment? your not just going to leave, your going to stop talking to me all together? if that was your plan all along then why the hell did you leave me that note?

email me back, dumbass. now.

----------------------------------------------

…………

You've reached Sam Winchester. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you:

"If you're not going to answer your email, at least answer your damn phone. Better yet, call me back. This is- Call. Now, Sam. Just- Call."

…………

You've reached Sam Winchester. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you:

"If you don't want to tell me where you are, at least tell me what's going on. I don't- Call, email, whatever, Sam. Just- call me, okay?"

…………

You've reached Sam Winchester. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you:

"I'm not mad. I'm not going to yell at you if you call. Or I will, but not a lot. Or not for leaving, just for not calling me back. So call, Sam. Please."

…………

You've reached Sam Winchester. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you:

"Okay. You've made your point. You- We'll stop hunting. We'll start finding answers. I know- You're frustrated. I know you are. Things are happening, and I don't- I don't know how to help you, and I wish-

"Dad hasn't heard from you either, and.

"Listen. I'll let you go when you want to go back to school, but this. This isn't about school, Sam. This- I know I can help you. There's a guy Dad knows in New York, someone that might be able to- fuck, I don't know. I know if you do anything to get yourself killed while you're off on this spoon boy martyr filled adventure of yours, I will resurrect your ass just to kill you again myself.

"Just- fine. Fuck it. Whatever. I don't care. Get yourself killed. Fine by me. Just don't expect me to come to your funeral."

…………

This is Dean. Leave a message:

"Boy, you leave all those messages for your brother and you're not even there to answer the damn phone. Get your butt back home, and if you give Sam any grief when you get here, I'm going to whack you with a spoon."  
…………

Translation.

Moderation.

Clear the way, aide in understanding. Bridge the gap between the one and the other, the you and the me. To each their own language, Spanish and French, parent and child, woman and man, yin and yang, x and y, brother and brother, older and younger, Dean and Sam.

To each their own.

Thank god for Missouri.

Go to her and you learn the truth.

…………

"Now, you remember what I told you?"

Sam nods. He's a bright boy. So much like his daddy, it hurts.

He's sitting up now, slumped against the back of the couch, but up and conscious and if Dean does anything to wear him out, she's going to—

"I'll be fine."

Shadows under his eyes, but Missouri feels strength in those bones.

"Never said you wouldn't be."

He smiles, small but genuine. "Didn't have to."

Yes. Strength in those bones. But it's not the bones she's worried about.

Sam takes a deep breath and Missouri eases out of the room. She walks down the hall, round the corner, and Dean sits slumped in a kitchen chair, hands curved around a cold cup of coffee.

"I know your daddy taught you to sit up straight."

Dean sighs and Missouri wonders if it's the same breath, in one brother, out the other. "You can go in now," she says, and Dean stands and turns and, "after I tell you a few things," stops. She reads tension bold faced and blaring in his hands, worry shunted off in the hazel parentheses of his eyes. He feels so much like his mother, it—

"Rule number one—"

"I don't—"

"Listen. _Listen_. Don't think you know what he's going to say. Hear him out first and listen."

"I—"

"Rule number two: I hear raised voices in there, I'm going to get cranky. And you don't want me to get cranky. You two are adults. Act like it."

"He—"

"Rule number three: anything gets broken, you will be replacing it. I've already gone through two dishes, five cups, a vase, a chair, and a window the past two weeks. So don't make me—"

"Whack me with a spoon. I got it. Can I go in now?"

Missouri nods and Dean slips past, walks off, eases down the hall to his brother. The door opens and the door shuts and Missouri sits down and sighs.

So much like each other, it hurts.

…………

They focus on the room at first, gazes tripping over knickknacks and memories, eyes avoiding the other except in the periphery.

Next, a tennis match of stare downs. Dean notices cuts on fingers and pale, pale skin. Sam sees rumpled clothes and a twelve o'clock shadow.

Then,

"How—"

"You—"

"-okay?"

Glances away, a shift up and straight, and.

Someone has to go first, take the plunge, yet.

Words don't say themselves, they need this, so.

"Missouri gave you the rules?"

Dean blinks. "She gave them to you?"

"Yeah." Sam pauses and remembers. "Don't listen to what he says, but to how he says it. If either of us gets up and walks out of the room, she's going to get cranky. And we don't want her cranky."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"You only got two?"

Sam nods and Dean looks down at his cup. He shakes his head, and Sam says, "What did she say to you?"

Dean rolls his eyes but answers. "Don't assume; listen. Don't yell. And don't break anything." He looks back at Sam. "How come I got three and you only got two?"

Sam looks at the door and then at Dean. He hears a question about rules, why three and not two, but feels what's so wrong with me, why did I need three?

"Missouri cares about you, Dean."

"I never said she didn't."

"I know—"

"Are you okay?"

Dean tries to listen, and he will. He knows that he will. About this. Two weeks gone, fifteen days passed, and Sam looks different. He looks different and he was gone and.

Sam looks away. His hands shake and he presses them flat, grips the couch by his knees. Is he okay? He looks back, looks down, closes his eyes, and then opens them. Dean's cup rises and falls, inches above knuckles and fingers, splashes cold coffee onto worn, dusty boots. Sam shakes and he shakes and the cup falls but Dean catches it, and he sets it down and says, "I don't care about that."

"You should."

"Maybe you should let me."

Sam swallows. Dean looks now and looks and it's the same. Sam is different, but the look is the same and he says, "Did you mean what you said?"

"When?"

"Before. On the phone." Sam looks down. "When you said that we'd find answers."

Dean peers at his cup. "Looks like you found some."

"I didn't want to leave."

"Then why did you?"

Scars mar his hands, crisscross his fingers like comets. The gun felt sure when he held it, slipped like silk into his palm. "I opened my eyes and it was there."

There was a gun in Sam's hand and blood on his face, but it wasn't Sam's or Dean's and that was all that mattered, except. Except that it wasn't. "You were scared," he says and Sam stays silent. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Would you have listened?"

"You even have to ask?"

"I mean, _really_ listened. You wouldn't have told me that everything was fine, that there wasn't anything for me to worry about?"

"There _is _nothing—"

"Yes, there is. There is, Dean. What happens- What happens if you're not there? What happens if, if—"

"If I die?"

Sam nods and Dean wonders, how many times does one get to die? Or not to die but to live again, and again, and again? Death waits for no man, but he waits for Dean, and someday.

"I don't want to end up like Max," Sam says, and Dean listens. He listens to quiet admissions of, "I can't. I can't end up like Max. But if that happens, if you. I don't know what would happen and that, that."

"Scares you."

Sam nods again, and Dean understands. He has no answers, no clue, nothing but himself, but Sam needs him and that's all, that's all that matters.

Dean stands. Sam watches him; he moves over to the door, and. Sam looks. His hands shake, and he can't and he won't, but Dean stops and says, "I meant what I said." He pauses. "Everything I said."

His head bows. He looks back. He looks back, and Sam sees. Dean looks and watches, off balance and on edge, not because of him, but for him, and that's all that matters.

"So," Sam says, "what happens now?"

"Now, you sleep."

"And then?"

"And then," Dean says, "we go see a man about a guy."

…………

Communication.

An act or instance of transmitting; a verbal or written message.

A process by which information is exchanged through a common system of symbols, signs, or behavior.

A sequence of sounds, twenty-six bases, tonal variations, a whispered wisp, a hurricane roar, some body language, talk to the hand 'cause the mouth just don't understand, but what can one say with a fist full of gun besides click, bang, boom?

What can one say?

I love you. I miss you. Don't leave me. Please help me.

I'm scared. I'm worried. I tried. I failed.

You left. You died. You lived. You followed.

You shouldn't. I can't. I need. We need.

What can one say?

What one can say. What one has to say, wants to say, needs to say, would like to say. What one should say, will say, might say, won't say.

The truth, the lies, the love, the hate.

The key to a successful relationship.

Communication.

…………


End file.
